


subtle tricks

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:44:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Dean forgets things sometimes. It's not really a big deal. It's always been like this. Nobody has to know; he's got this handled all on his own. (<em>Right. When has that ever worked out for any of them?</em>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	subtle tricks

_Memory can never be mere fact or history._ *

:::

When Dean is seven, they stop in Hanover, Maryland to visit one of Dad's friends. Dad doesn't mention why, and the way he mentioned it so casually caused Dean's skin to prickle. Dad doesn't have friends. He has contacts. And he certainly doesn't stop by for a visit.

Dad disappears when they get into the house, leaving Dean and Sammy with Jenny, Luke's wife. She is pretty, dark-haired with matching eyes, and she fixes them sandwiches and sits them in the living room with the TV. Then she's gone, too, leaving Dean to stare at Luke's Marine uniform, pressed and hung beside the cabinet. They finish one movie, some cartoon Dean wasn't paying much attention to, and are well on their way through a second when Dad finally comes back, this time without Jenny. His face is tired and worn, and he beckons them to get up and follow him out.

"What happened?" Dean asks, but Dad simply shakes his head and steers them back to the car.

It's not until that night when Dad thought they're asleep that Dean gets a clue.

"It's bad," Dad says, and Dean starts until he realized that Dad's on the phone. "He didn't even recognize me. Tried to hit me when I talked to him." A pause. "Some sort of head injury. _Hell,_ he didn't even remember what he had for breakfast." He's quiet for a moment. "I don't know. I really don't know."

Dad hangs up soon after that, and Dean pries his eyes open slightly. Dad sits on the chair, head in his hands. He's still, silent, each muscle stiff and prominent. Dean holds his breath, doesn't move, not wanting Dad to know he's awake.

Dean's is nothing like that. He would never forget Dad. His is no big deal.

He slams his eyes closed and bites his lip.

After that, Dad papers their motel rooms with his notes, scribbles extra hard in his journal. He mutters to himself, once, twice, gritting his teeth.

Dean keeps lots of lists, too, but he keeps those to himself. Dad doesn't need to worry.

:::

_Tempe, Arizona. Hot as hell. Black dog, I think. Stay frosty. Or something._

There are twelve cars in the parking lot. Three blue, two red. One green. Four black. Even a white car, which is stupid, because that shows dirt. Or so Dad says.

In their room, the smoke alarm is disabled, and Dean's first inhale burns his nose. Dad rolls his eyes and kicks the alarm under one of the beds, throwing his duffel down on top. Sam throws himself on the other one, silent and sullen, mouth tight and eyes cool. His shoes have holes in the bottom.

"Thirty minutes," Dad says. Sam takes that as the okay to flop on his back, resting his hands on his stomach. His eyes don't close. Dad sighs but he doesn't say anything, moving around the room with his container of salt. The sound of the grains hitting the floor is strangely soothing.

"We eating afterwards?"

"Nope, figured we'd skip dinner tonight. Yes, we're eating afterwards, what did you think?"

Sam shrugs. "Dunno." His eyes are cautious. "Pizza?"

Dad considers. "I could do pizza."

Sam sits up, a grin playing on his lips, as if he didn't think Dad would actually agree. "Sausage?"

"Maybe half sausage," Dad says. "Anything you want, Dean?"

"Uh," Dean says. Dad's look turns expectant. "You know. Whatever. I can do sausage."

"Really?" Dad says, eyebrow raised.

That familiar sense of self-doubt creeps along his neck. "Yeah. Sure. Why not?"

He remembers too late that he likes onions on his pizza. Letting his gaze drift outside the window, he counts ten cars left.

:::

Most days, he's fine. Most days, it's nothing. Even when it isn't, it's not a big deal. So sometimes he forgets which toothbrush is his. Who cares if he tries to unlock the wrong car. Other times, he forgets what direction Dad told him to go.

"I said _right_! God damn it, Dean!"

_Why are you yelling? Stop yelling._

It's freezing; he breathes out smoke. Pain sings along his side but it's almost distant. He stares up at the trees above him. "Did it get away?"

Dad ignores him and lifts his shirt with a muffled curse. "Stay still."

Dean blinks; his eyes feel wet. The taste of sausage sits on his tongue, cruelly mixing with copper. "Did I mess up?"

"Get me the bag, will you, Sam?"

Dean wonders if he's actually talking out loud. "Dad?"

"Quiet."

There's nothing but heavy breathing, just little hitches, and it takes Dean a moment to realize that it's coming from him. His blood is on fire, flowing hot from his side, soaking the leaves underneath him.

"Why didn't you fucking listen to what I said?"

Dean bites his lip, flinches. "What did you say?"

Dad's jaw almost drops. He shakes his head. "Stay still. Don't - I said _stay still._ "

He lets his eyes slip closed, trying to remember. Did Dad say right? He could have sworn...he could have sworn -

A tap to the cheek. "Hey. Eyes open."

"Sorry," Dean mumbles.

"Don't tell me sorry. Open. Up."

He tries, he does, but it's as if his eyes are sewn shut. "Dad."

"Damn it," Dad mutters. "Sorry, kiddo."

Dean's about to ask why but his eyes fly open when there's a hand pressed against his side. He thinks he screams, pretty sure he screams, and another hand is clutching his own but it doesn't even matter.

"Keep it pressed against his side, Sam," he hears, then he's lifted into the air. He's supposed to protest, he hasn't been carried in seven fucking years, but the words die on his lips and all he can do is groan.

When he opens his eyes again, he's flat on his back, resting on a firm mattress. At first he freezes, did he forget, did he forget how he got here -

"How are you feeling, kid?"

It's not Dad. It's not even Sam. He thinks he makes some sort of mumbling sound that he hopes will convey that he's asking who the fuck this guy is.

"Jake. Served with your dad?"

Dean furrows his brow; he doesn't feel up to opening his eyes just yet. He pictures a tall man with dark blond hair, still in a buzz cut. Met him once, few years back, when Dad's intestines were dangling out of his gut. A gruff voice, barking out "I'm a medic, not a surgeon", but only hearing Dad's laugh (weak cough, really) and a "just fucking do it, Jake."

"I've gotten some good practice with stitches. Pretty proud of the job I did on your side, there."

Dean's hand automatically moves to feel the bandage, eyes still closed. "Thanks," he mumbles. "Where's my dad?"

"Sleeping. Your brother, too. They stayed up for a while but you didn't feel like waking up for them, so I sent them to bed."

Dean nods ands sighs, wincing when his side burns.

"If you're as much as a stubborn ass as your father, you won't say, but I'll ask anyway - does anything else hurt?"

He almost opens his mouth - _hey, know anything about forgetting things every now and then? Not a big deal, right?_ and almost giggles to himself. He swallows the words down and mutters that no, he's fine, besides the gaping hole in his side.

The question is heavy in his mouth for the next few days anyway.

:::

_Spokane, Washington. Been ten months since - yeah. Just me and Dad. Poltergeist._

Sometimes he makes breakfast for three. Dad stares but doesn't say a word. He turns around and leaves, and by the time he comes back, it's set for two.

"Gotta focus," Dad says finally, quiet. "You're not thinking. I need your head in the game."

Like yours is, Dean wants to say. Sorry I can't stop caring like you did.

All Dad wants to talk about is the hunt, then the next one, and straighten that left arm, you're getting sloppy. It's almost like Dad is Reb Saunders, the rabbi from _The Chosen_ who only spoke to his son if they were studying Talmud together. Each day is simply a list of goals to fulfil, from eating to showering to sleeping. Frustrating activities that have to be done but are considered to be of little importance.

The whiskey, however, is another matter entirely.

He's been alone a lot more now. Dean is pretty sure that's what Dad goes to at night every now and then, the bottle, mouth tight and eyes narrowed, guilt all over his face. As if thinking about anything but hunting is a cardinal sin, as if he's disappointing someone (Mom, always Mom) by doing something other than avenging her.

When Dad disappears, Dean pulls out his own journal and scribbles down the names and descriptions of everyone he met that day. One night stands, fellow hunters, people who he could have called friends if he had stuck around long enough. The spine is flimsy, the pages torn and frayed, and every time he handles it he runs his fingers along the rips on the cover carefully. He's never forgotten a person, but just in case - just in case.

When Dad is there, he sneaks into the bathroom and shuts the door with a soft click, pulling his pen out from the spirals. He chews on the cap, tip of the pen hovering over a page, before he slams it shut and shakes his head.

He's not putting Sam in the book.

:::

There are a lot of things he might forget, but his brother will never be one of them.

(The first two months after Sam is back, he doesn't forget a damn thing.)

:::

_Albany, NY. Humans. Fucking awesome._

"I want to go south. South Carolina or something."

Sam looks just as tired and worn as Dean feels. The cut on his temple looks like it's going to scar; it disappears into his hairline. His lips are chapped, cracked, hair hanging in his eyes. Kid needs a haircut.

"What's down there?"

Sam shrugs. "Heat? I'm tired of this cold weather, man."

Dean eyes him. "You just need another coat. You look like a hobo."

Sam doesn't rise to the bait. "We're going south."

"What if I don't want to?"

"We're going. Get in the car."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Get. In. The car."

Sam is lanky, almost as if his muscles haven't grown accustomed to the stretching of his frame during college, but Dean wouldn't admit out loud that Sam might have a better chance at taking him on now. His hands curl into fists on the table, and, well. Dean's always had an issue with telling him no.

Sam insists on driving, adjusting the seat so he can fit his long legs under the steering wheel. He doesn't even protest when the radio roars to life, only rolling down the window and letting one arm hang out. For the first time since Dean pulled him out of his burning apartment, he looks relaxed.

They drive aimlessly, their only destination south, and Dean makes a few off-handed comments about going to Myrtle Beach and Sam counters with Dean's _delicate skin_ burning and peeling, rinse and repeat.

Dean allows himself to smile.

After Dean lugs his stuff into their room, he tells Sam that he's going to head down to the local restaurant and pick up something to eat. He orders a Reuben for Sam, sauerkraut on the side, and throws in a bag of baked chips. It's late, so the place is nearly empty, and the hostess sits down and chats with him until their food is ready. She sticks some cookies in the bag on top of the containers and gives him a wink. He smiles at her and gives a mock salute.

It's gotten colder during the ten minutes he was inside, but he hums to himself, setting the bag on top of the car and popping open the door. He nearly drives away without bringing the food inside, and he feels pretty damn proud to remember last minute. He's ready to destroy this Philly cheesesteak, with melted provolone and grilled peppers and onions; he can almost hear the grease dripping through the wrapper.

Except he doesn't remember where their room is. Dean grips the steering wheel and just sits for a minute, collecting his thoughts. He turned left to get here. He's pretty sure.

Kinda sure.

He drives, but nothing looks familiar - granted, there are five motels in the area and each one is in dire need of a paint job, all one-story. His phone watches him from the dash, almost mockingly, but he lets it sit there. He's not calling Sam so he can fucking remember where he is.

Luckily for him, there's a bar down the street, and he parks out front so that when Sam comes to look for him, Sam'll see the car.

God, he needs a drink.

There's a decent amount of people inside, enough to have the bartender running from one end to the other. Dean slides in next to an older man, heavy-set and beared, who's nursing a beer and a shot of SoCo, looks like. He orders his own whiskey, three fingers, neat, please, thank you, bartender. A game of darts goes on beyond him and he watches that for a moment before he turns back around. His glass is already empty.

"Got something to prove?"

Dean quirks an eyebrow. "Huh?"

The bearded man (Dean bestows him the name Jolly) gestures to the glass. "You drank that pretty quickly."

"You the bar philosopher for the night?"

Jolly laughs; it doesn't sound right coming from his mouth. "Perhaps."

Dean doesn't answer as the bartender refills his glass, giving him an extra finger, even. He tips an imaginary hat.

Jolly doesn't say anything after that - he starts doodling on a napkin, and Dean recognizes a game of hangman.

"Really, dude?"

Jolly hands him the pen; Dean sighs but takes it, and twelve napkins later, he's having a fucking fantastic time, although all of his guesses end up referencing genitalia.

"You're an asshole."

Dean blinks, but his vision doesn't clear. "You're not very nice."

Sam's wavy bangs appear in front of his gaze. "Yeah? Who's the one who abandoned the other, huh?"

"Shut up. I'm playing hangman with Jolly here - oh." He's alone, their thirteenth unfinished game still on a napkin on the bar.

"Jolly?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

Dean motions around his face. "Yeah. Big white fluffy be-beard. Looked like Santa."

"So - do I need to ask the obvious question?"

"What was Santa doing in a bar?"

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Dean finishes off his glass and nods for another. "Got thirsty?"

Sam waves off the bartender. "No, you're done. Come on."

"One more."

" _No._ "

Dean blinks but he pulls out his wallet when the tab is set in front of him. He squints; did he really drink that much? How long has he been here?

"You don't come back for over two fucking hours and you don't make one fucking phone call? _Jesus._ I was about to call the _hospital_ looking for you, because I figured the only way you would disappear is because you got slammed into a tree or something. But you stopped in for a drink - several drinks. Seriously?"

Oh. He should probably apologize, right? "Sorry."

Sam snorts. "You're sorry. Let me see your phone."

Wordlessly, Dean pulls it out of his pocket and hands it over. Sam shows him the screen.

"Five missed calls, do you see that? Five."

"Oh."

" _Oh_? You know, never mind. Come on, let's go. Food's probably cold as hell, isn't it? Did you even get the food?"

"I got the food," Dean says, suddenly defensive. "It's - it's in the car."

Sam sighs. "Of course it is." He shakes his head and takes hold of Dean's forearm, tugging him to his feet. "Guess it's the drive-thru, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Dean says, because he is, really, sorry that Sam was alone in their room freaking out, slamming his phone with calls. He knows what that feels like.

"Come on," Sam repeats, more quietly this time. He stays quiet until he orders from the intercom, hesitates before he throws in some burgers onto the order. He doesn't bother driving back, okay with sitting in the parking lot with the car running. He breaks the silence after he eats his chili. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Don't play dumb, man. I'm not doing this tonight."

Dean crumples up his wrapper and throws it in the glove compartment. "I don't know."

Sam scoffs. "Right. Of course you don't. How convenient for you. Don't tell me, that's fine."

"Good."

"Fine."

Dean waits a minute before he turns the radio on full blast, and Sam doesn't bother to protest.

:::

_Ashford, Alabama. Please don't be a black dog. They fucking suck. Fucking flesh-eaters._

Sam points out a diner on their right; it's colorful and bright, a brilliant contrast to the darkness of a late night.

"They should have some good food tomorrow, you think?"

Tomorrow? "I guess? Yeah, sure."

Sam digs into his duffel and pulls out a wad of cash, counting the bills. "Doesn't look like there's much else. Chinese, maybe? Then tomorrow we can head to the diner around three."

"Does this diner offer free blow jobs?"

Sam starts. "What?"

"You seem a little too excited about it."

Sam gives him a strange look. "Okay," he draws out. "Just looks like a good place."

Dean shrugs and pulls into the motel lot. "They better have mac and cheese. With lots of cheese."

"They probably will," Sam says, sounding amused but pleased.

:::

As soon as they walk in the diner the next afternoon, Dean feels like a dumbass.

He can see streamers hung beyond the line, tacky-looking balloons of every color tied to the chairs. The wait staff are one step away from full-blown Pilgrim costumes, all aprons and tall socks and stupid looking hats. A few older men sit at the bar, leaving one seat in between them - though they all look friendly with one another, smiling and drinking coffee. There's a family of seven in the back, a tired looking woman wrestling her screaming toddler into a high chair while the father cuts up his daughter's chicken into small bites. A son keeps poking at the father's shoulder, giggling while the father grits his teeth.

Every Thanksgiving, they would go to a diner and eat home-cooked meals - meatloaf with heaps of gravy, stuffing, pumpkin pie. They were never like those kids, he and Sam, but rather quiet, well-behaved, very aware that this is probably the highest of luxuries they would ever get. A normal tradition, dare he say.

(Except for the first Thanksgiving after Sam left. Neither he nor Dad remember that one much.)

God, he's so fucking stupid.

It takes a few minutes, but they're shown to a table by the window, between one older couple who eats each bite with delicate purpose and a young woman tucked in a jacket. People who have all drifted here because they have nowhere else to be.

"Dinner's ten bucks," Sam says, squinting at the menu. There's a picture of a smiling pig on the front, a green napkin tucked into his front collar. "The works - turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing - no mac and cheese, though."

Dean nods aimlessly. "It's cool. You don't need - mac and cheese with Thanksgiving, I guess."

Sam taps his menu and chews on his bottom lip. Dean doesn't care for the expression on his face. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam says, gaze going thoughtful. He frowns. Before Dean can ask again, they're greeted by a waitress who immediately sets down a plate of rolls in front of them and asks if they want the special. They can hear the playfully unspoken _duh_ in the question.

"Thanks," Sam says, handing her the menus, and he starts to toy with his napkin, ripping it into little shreds across the table like confetti.

Their dinner isn't quite what he remembers from years past (heh, what he remembers. He's hilarious.) The turkey is dry, mashed potatoes bland.

"Not worth ten bucks," Dean says. He sniffs at the yams and makes a face. "Not worth ten cents."

Sam's own plate is still full. Dean sticks a roll in his mouth; it's soft and melts in his mouth. Thank God for small favors. He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"You forgot it was Thanksgiving."

Dean stops chewing, swallows the rest of the roll. Shit. "No, I didn't."

"You did. You forgot. You forgot it was Thanksgiving. You also seem to forget which toothbrush is yours - the blue one, by the way. Sometimes you check the motel pamphlets when you think I'm not looking. So. Want to let me in on what's going on?"

The roll was too buttery, Dean thinks. Too salty. He needs a beer.

"Sit. Down."

Dean sits. His clothes suddenly feel too big.

Sam digs into his pocket and pulls out a little slip of paper, and is that what he - yep, that's what he thinks it is.

_Sarasota, Florida. Fuck. Yeah._

Somehow Dean's handwriting looks mocking. He feels like an idiot.

"Found this under your pillow the other day," Sam says, letting it slip onto the table. "Had no idea what the fuck it was, but I didn't try to overthink it. Guess it makes sense now."

"Hey -"

"Did Dad know about this? Whatever this is? You know. Forgetting shit?"

"No, but -"

"Right, he didn't look hard enough." Sam grits his teeth. "Of course not."

Dean narrows his eyes. "I'm not doing this with you."

"Right," Sam repeats, blowing out a breath. "You realize that memory loss can be a sign of a serious neurological problem, right?"

"No, I forgot."

"You -" Sam stops. "That's not funny. That's not fucking funny." 

Dean doesn't apologize.

"You've got to see a doctor."

"Nah."

"Too fucking bad. I don't care. We're going."

"I've been fine, you know. Been fine for over twenty years -"

"Right, because that clearly means that this is a stable and healthy condition. You can be such an idiot, you know that?"

Dean opens his mouth, but Sam's glare shuts it closed.

"Aren't you curious? Haven't you been wondering what this is?"

"Not really," Dean shrugs. "It's always been there."

"Well, not anymore," Sam says. "Not if I can help it."

:::

Now, Dean's own note is gone, along with his knife. In their place:

_South Dakota. Knights Inn. Appointment in two days. And no, the knife is non-negotiable._

Sam's loopy handwriting; Dean can almost hear the anger coming off the written words.

Two days.

:::

(But it doesn't matter, because Sam dies. He goes and dies, and Dean forces himself to forget how it felt when Dad had left him in the same way he's going to leave Sam. Tries to forget the look on Sam's face when he tells him that he's not going to fight the deal.

He fails on both fronts.)

:::

(It doesn't matter after that. With a year left?

He doesn't need scribbled notes where he's going.

Hell will burn away your humanity, Ruby says. Make you forget what it's like to be human.

All Dean can do is laugh.)

:::

Never one to give up, Sam presses on, calling anyone, reading anything. Dean watches silently and hopes that Sam will be okay with out him. He chooses to focus on the notes instead; a last tour around the world, so to speak. A bucket list of people to see and things to do.

_Cheyenne, Wyoming. Jenna. Nine months left. Insert pregnancy joke here. Make it a good one._

_Tulsa, Oklahoma. Michael. Five months left. Can't believe he's - he was a good guy. Fuck._

_De Paul, Minnesota. Jake. Two months left. Probably should have asked him way back when, huh?_

Sam doesn't like it; his jaw tightens whenever he sees Dean writing them at night, eyes tracking the movement of the pen carefully. Sometimes he looks like he's about to talk and Dean tenses, waits, but Sam stays silent. Other times Sam disappears entirely until the note is safely tucked under the pillow.

One morning, his hand automatically reaches under his pillow to find the note, but he comes up empty. "Sam?"

Sam smiles. Doesn't reach his eyes. "We're in Duluth."

Dean frowns. "And?" He stays in his bed, thinks. Duluth, okay. 

What's in Duluth?

"We're taking a break," Sam says. He swallows, ties up the laces of his shoes. "There's a fair."

Dean perks up. "Fair?" Fair food is _awesome._ Except for deep fried butter. Man's gotta have limits.

A ghost of a smile plays on Sam's lips. "Funnel cake and everything." He ducks his head and shoves his phone in his pocket.

"No hunt?"

"No hunt," Sam echoes. "Just for today. I need one day, okay? Then we can go back to work. That cool?"

"Yeah, I guess. Why?"

Sam's shoulders tense. "Don't ask me, you're the one who wanted to stop. This one's known for their pie, you said."

Dean frowns. "I did?"

Sam clears his throat. "Yeah, you did. Hurry up and shower, man. You know it'll be crowded with kids."

Dean snorts; salutes, but the tingle on the back of his neck grows. "Yeah. Sure you're okay?"

Sam nods wordlessly and gestures to the bathroom.

"All right," Dean grumbles, digging into his bag for a change of clothes. "The silent but deadly thing doesn't work for you, though. Just so you know."

Sam's laugh turns into a cough, and he sits back against the headboard. He plays with his fingers. "I'll keep that in mind for future reference." His voice trails off at the end.

Dean watches him for a moment before he heads off to the shower, hearing Sam whisper just before he shuts the door.

" _Forgive me._ "

* * *

*Remembering by David Smith White.


End file.
